Remembering The Man
by CrunchyScones
Summary: After several months I've finally decided the best way to deal with my grief is by writing about it. I never thought I'd need to sit down and document my life without Sherlock, but I guess there comes a time for everyone when you just can't take anymore.
1. Chapter 1

**The Journal of John. H. Watson MD**

**Title:** Remembering the man :- Sherlock Holmes

I've been sitting here for at least an hour, maybe two, trying to think of a way to start this. After several months I've finally decided the best way to deal with my grief is by writing about it. My therapist is greatly surprised, but then again, so am I. I never thought I'd need to sit down and document my life without Sherlock, but I guess there comes a time for everyone when you just can't take anymore.

I guess you want to know how it all began...but if you've read my blog there's no need to explain. I will never believe that Sherlock could do...that. And I want to make it clear that he _wasn't _a fake – as I'm sure most of you believe the press saying he was. Sherlock was a hero and a genius, even if he was an arrogant dick along with it. He would never create a 'consulting criminal' and commit kidnap and murder. Anyone at all who has employed him will know that. How can you say that he _planned _crimes that people all across England came to seek his advice about? Sherlock was a man of pure intellect, he observed what we did not. He was...brilliant.

I've seen things at war in Afghanistan that could make the toughest men break down...but...when the person you're the closest to, your best friend, is standing on top of a building about ready to jump...how can you find any words to describe that? You may not believe it but he was crying – I could hear that on the phone. Sherlock never cried. He was more human than he'd like to believe. I guess what hurts the most is the fact that he'd already made up his mind. He knew that if I wanted to I could get him to back down and that's why he didn't give me the chance. At least...I'd like to believe I could've stopped him.

Lestrade has called twice, the first time to offer his condolences and the second time to give me Sherlock's phone. They'd apparently found it on the roof of the hospital along with the dead 'Rich Brook' or Moriarty as I know him to be and will continue to believe he is, or was, until the end of my days. I'm not really sure how to feel about being handed over my dead best friend's possession. I personally think it should have gone to Mycroft.

Worse still is the fact that on the screen of the phone is my picture, my contact picture. Sherlock had simply ended the call without bothering to wipe the screen. The duration of our final phone call is still stated : a couple of minutes. Our last _ever _conversation had been a _couple of minutes _long. How am I meant to feel about _that?_

I can still hear it. His voice, inside my head, telling me that that phone call was his suicide note. He chose me to be the last person he ever spoke to. His only friend. I oddly find the tiniest of comfort in thinking that my face and my voice were the last ones Sherlock ever saw or heard. I didn't even hear him hit the pavement. The world felt like it had stopped turning, like time was slowed right down. Back when it was all happening a small part of me thought he wasn't going to do it, I mean, he had no reason to that I could think of, that's why it didn't register straight away in my brain that he was falling. I often think about what I should have said in those precious last seconds -

"_Don't do it!"_

"_Please Sherlock, NO!"_

I even consider how I wished I'd confessed.

"_I love you"_

Although...it wouldn't have made any difference. Sherlock was still as stubborn as hell, that wouldn't have changed.

I never properly got to see Sherlock after the hospital staff wheeled him off, not until the morgue. But then when it came down to it I couldn't do it. He was lying there, a body covered by a white sheet. Lifeless. I think I got as far as lifting a corner of the material before I broke down. They had to get Molly to ID the body for me. The ironic thing is...they gave me a orange shock blanket, just like the one he'd had. I bet Sherlock would've got a kick out of that. As far as I'm concerned the last time I saw Sherlock Holmes was not on a cold metal slab in Molly's lab but when he was standing on the roof of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, arm outstretched towards me as he told me '_Goodbye John.'_

Life is very different now at Baker Street. At first I didn't return, I went to stay with Harry, but now I'm back it feels a mere skeleton of the house I remember. 221B is not somewhere to live anymore, it's a place to exist. I've got so used to Sherlock's energy that I've forgotten how to be alone. I sit here for hours sometimes, just listening. If I hear the creak of a floorboard or the hum of someone talking I assume it's him bounding in with some new ludicrous case or him prattling on to me when I wasn't even there. It feels as though he hasn't left – I haven't touched a thing since he's been gone. When I decide to try and tidy up I get as far as picking up a couple of books and I find myself unable to see the process through. I get sick of waiting for him to turn up but at the same time I can't stop myself hoping.

I can't bear to open our fridge for fear of seeing a piece of pickled anatomy floating in a jar that will instantly remind me of Sherlock and how much this whole ideal has truly affected me. Now and then I've tried to leave the flat to clear my head but I keep seeing him everywhere. Streets that I've walked down a thousand times without hesitation are now screaming reminders of when we've _both _gone running down the cobbles on a high speed chase or just gone for a simple walk. The pale sky reminds me too much of the colour of his eyes and seeing all the business men in suits and long coats and scarfs just about knocks down whatever dam I've built up inside myself.

Once when I was hurrying back to Baker Street I passed a businessman I knew. Mycroft had not attended his brother's funeral and his only contact has been a text asking if I did indeed tell Sherlock that he was sorry. At first I'd been enraged by the man's detached approach to his younger brother's death and I had often contemplated marching down to Mycroft's office and yelling at him until my voice expired. But now I can see that humble silence is Mycroft's way of coping with his loss and that as he stood staring at 221B he was waiting to see Sherlock miraculously appear once more. He isn't the only one.

Nowadays the only emotions I knowingly feel are a sense of being hollow, angry and guilty and I fall sick an awful lot. Blood especially seems to make me feel ill – inconvenient seeing as I'm first and foremost a Doctor now. Blood reminds me of the crimson that spread across the pavement from Sherlock's battered body and always brings to my mind how his usually pale, judging face had been painted red. I've lost a considerable amount of weight since Sherlock's been gone and I'm now bordering on being as slim as he was. The only difference is that I look ill with it – I'm a Doctor, I know what malnutrition is. Mrs Hudson tries to get me to eat but eating now makes me feel guilty at the fact that _he _can't eat and never will be able to again. She _does _try to cheer me up but it doesn't help me at all ; I hear her crying too.

I haven't left the flat for weeks now and the only person I ever see is Mrs Hudson, although I'm now beginning to shut her out too. I'm thin, I'm depressed and I'm scruffy and yet I don't care. I'm such a recluse now that I often wonder if I'm becoming Sherlock, cutting out all human emotion and living each day as if by default. Strangely this idea pleases and scares me – it separates me from who I am – the man who watched Sherlock Holmes die – and links me more to the mindset of the greatest man I'd ever known, bringing me closer to the man I loved.

Yes, I will admit now that I did love Sherlock. I never told him and I denied the notion of our being a couple right up until Sherlock's dying day. I think of him often and how without him the world is no longer a place packed full of mystery and adventure but one of hurt and peril. I live in a city with too many memories. I don't know if Sherlock figured out how I felt about him before the end – honestly I don't know if I want to know if he did. In my heart I have a feeling that Sherlock did indeed know, he was a genius of deduction after all. The memory of him telling me to take his hand is enough for me though. It'll have to be.

Sometimes I wake up in the night, shocked awake by imagining I feel a hand on my face or I hear my name being called. Sometimes I even trick myself into thinking I've seen him leave or I hear him playing his violin. I suppose if I'm going mad it's a good thing nobody is around to see it. I haven't been back to work properly ever since the funeral, moreover because they said I needed to be stable before I could see patients again. Mrs Hudson doesn't charge me full rent yet – she only charges me for my half and not Sherlock's. I asked her why the other day and she told me the money is still coming in to pay for him. I guess Mycroft has a heart after all.

I'm not going to even try to get past this – I'd rather have haunting memories of Sherlock than none at all, even if some of them are unpleasant.

The surgery called me a couple of minutes ago and told me that they need me to come in next week, at least for a couple of hours. The strength I once had as a solider seems to be all but gone and I'll admit I'm scared of the world now.

I'm going to have to bite the bullet and start my life without Sherlock, whether I like it or not.

**R.I.P Sherlock – Keep working on that miracle I asked you for.**

**Posted by: **_John Hamish Watson_

**Date: **_17__th__ April 2012 – 14:56 PM_


	2. Chapter 2

**The Journal of John. H. Watson MD**

**Title:** Moving on from :- Sherlock Holmes

It's been around a year since I last wrote here. If you want to know why, the honest reason is that nothing has happened that's really worth documenting. If I'd have written here everyday it would have just been a journal of the same three words: - '_.dead.' - _It's surprising in a way to me now how much my life revolved around Sherlock's cases and his affairs and that now he's gone my life is empty, ordinary and as he would say '_Boring!' _You never miss a good thing till it's gone.

I'm working full time as a Doctor now, seeing patients day in day out. It helps me to take my mind off him, if but for a while. Sometimes I work night shifts just so I don't have to leave the surgery and go back to a empty house. I've also tried dating again – but that's been like shooting fish in a barrel.

I must've been out with every female employee at the surgery by now and they've all got the same opinion of me: that I'm hung up on somebody else and unable to comit. Some of them even think I'm gay. I'm _not _gay, if you're wondering, and I've never seen myself as anything but straight...but..Sherlock was the exception I suppose. He just had this way that made you want to do anything to please him, to get praise – you were always striving to be noticed around Sherlock. Little did I realise until the end that, like Molly, I'd been striving to be loved by Sherlock. If only I'd realised that sooner.

Anyway. Things were going well with the dates with each woman until they got tired of me staying over at their places all the time and demanded to be shown where I live. One of them, probably Katy or Jessica, had even asked me if they could meet '_that crazy flatmate' _I'm always going on about. That hit me rather hard. I know I _do _talk about Sherlock – my main topic of conversation sometimes – but I had no idea I was talking about him in the present tense, as if he's still alive. Like all the other girls Katy and/or Jess got sick of me being so secretive and broke our relation off. I can't say I'm upset though – I never really liked them that much. I went out with them for the company and to get some actual human contact. I'm just not ready for someone to take Sherlock's place in my life yet – sometimes I wonder if I'll ever be.

I finally cleaned up 221B after nearly nine months of sitting in amongst Sherlock's clutter. I haven't thrown anything away though – _that _I can't do. It took me a good two days to clear out everything and then pack it into boxes – the reason being I couldn't stop thinking that packing up Sherlock's belongings meant taking the first step to admitting he was truly gone and wouldn't be coming back. I could lie to you and say it was dust that was making my eyes water but I've done too much lying to myself lately. I cried as I locked away the escence, all I had left of Sherlock, in the basement of 221B. Locking the door felt like locking away the final aspect of my best friend's existance and it was a good ten minutes before I could ready myself to walk into the apartment that was now well and truly mine. If only I could let myself believe that.

I really am trying to move on but the fact is that it's hard, unbelievably so. At Christmas I couldn't bring myself to go and see Harry – knowing her she'd be drinking all the time I was there anyway. Mrs Hudson was my only company on Christmas Day and we spent it in the living room of Baker Street, sipping cold mulled wine and nibbling on mince pies. Neither of us could find it in ourselves to stomach a traditional Christmas dinner so we scraped by on snacks and alcohol until the early morning light. I wouldn't say our conversation is awkward now but we both find it hard not to address the elephant in the room and several times we've both made the other feel worse by slipping up and mentioning Sherlock's hatred of communial festive gatherings.

We spent New Years Eve in very much the same way except this time Mrs Hudson left as soon as 2013 had rolled in whereas I stayed up and continued drinking. I'm not an alcoholic by any sense of the word but being all alone and knowing it would be a further year without Sherlock pushed me over the edge. I don't remember falling asleep but I suppose I must've because when I woke up the next morning with a severe hangover I was lying down on my bed with a blanket covering me and with a fresh glass of water on the sideboard. I summarised Mrs Hudson must've come in in the early morning to check on me and for that I was grateful but the one thing I can't get my head round and decide whether I was hallucinating due to the hangover with was the sight of the pillow next to mine looking like it had been rested on. I really have to be careful: - if I keep having dillusions that Sherlock is haunting me I really _will _never get a date. Hope is hard to kill though.

When the anniversary of Sherlock's death came around I went to visit his grave – I took flowers with me although I know how he would've nattered on to me about how cliché that was. Once I'd left the carnations by his head stone I talked to him -

_'I can't believe it's been a year.'_

_'I miss you – does that surprise you? It surprised me at first.'_

_'Why did you have to go, Sherlock?'_

I even told him about my failure with dating and how even without him there he still manages to get in the way of my love life. Even though I knew if he were alive Sherlock would be ignoring me telling him all this it feels nice in a strange way to feel as though I can talk to him about my day – as if nothing has changed. I've been to the graveyard several times now – mostly when I need to think – and every time I try my best to look presentable, brushing my hair and wearing my smartest suit. As I said before, with Sherlock you always strived to be noticed and in my case, loved. Even with Sherlock seemingly gone I still try my hardest to be the best I can be – I still strive to be loved by a dead man.

Yesterday was the most recent time I've gone to visit Sherlock. I find when I'm not at work I can't find myself wanting to do anything else other than see him. I know it's stupid and it's not helping me move on, even if I argue with myself that it's helping me get closure, but I can't stop myself.. I think that after that visit though that I'm going to only go once a year – on the anniversary. The reason being is I saw him. At least – I think I did.

I've been taking to reading out a couple of articles in the news to Sherlock – because I know that if he were still here we'd be on the cases of them. I imagine his reactions, his self assurance in his calculations and the way he'd pull off impossible deductions whilst still managing to be an arse and a genius at the same time. I was reading him a case study I'd managed to wrangle off Lestrade out of sympathy and was just finishing explaining how the murder seemingly occurred, when I saw him.

I know this sounds insane but I'm sure it was him. He was dressed in the same suit, coat and blue scarf and even though I only saw the back of the man's head I would recognise those ebony curls anywhere. I yelled out -

_'Sherlock! SHERLOCK – Wait!'_

Yet the man did not turn round or even act like he'd heard me. Losing Sherlock has taken away the strength in my leg once more and my psycho-somatic limp is back. I never really acknowledged he was the reason for my recovery until I found myself unable to run after that man in the graveyard. _Damn my leg_, as I once said to Mrs Hudson.

Thinking about it now and after talking it through with my therapist I'm trying my hardest to believe I imagined Sherlock in the graveyard, that in my fragile state of mind I'd only seen what I wanted to see. But as a solider I've always been trained to trust my gut instinct – and I know that I can never fully accept what I saw was a result of my own doing, because if it was...

Sherlock _wouldn't_ have been walking away and leaving me, _he'd be coming to find me. _

**R.I.P Sherlock – Nice try. But I'm still waiting for that miracle. **

**Posted by: **_John Hamish Watson_

**Date: **_17__th__ April 2013 – 13:43 PM_


End file.
